


apple cores, or: the perception of hearts

by basileion



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Canon, how this pairing is not more popular i do Not understand, they're both rays of sunshine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27633962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basileion/pseuds/basileion
Summary: An ocean liner love story (the non-Titanic kind).
Relationships: Prissy Andrews/Winifred Rose
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	apple cores, or: the perception of hearts

**Author's Note:**

> they might be out of character and any research i did probably didn't make it into the actual story (this is my very first fic and really the first thing i've written for enjoyment in years, so idk about the quality). (also at some point i got confused with what year it was and it's probably not noticeable other than when i said winnie had a panel skirt but hey. she's fashion forward!)
> 
> title from me trying to establish a motif and failing. i'm not great at the dialogue, could i mayhaps interest you in some lesbians?

Winnie leaves, after speaking with Anne.

On the ride to the train station, she thinks things over. The sound of the cobblestones under the coach wheels gives her some much needed background noise, and the rhythmic tapping of the horse’s trot punctuates her thoughts. She knows she sounded bitter, but she isn't, not really. She did not have her heart broken, however much she cares about Gilbert, and while the ring on her finger did mean something — she just had expectations that blew up in her face.

Anyone would be upset about that, she thinks, thank you very much. Her parents are perfectly fine with letting her do whatever she wants, as long as she remains respectable, and if she comes across as slightly eccentric and loud, well, that'll keep the bores far away from her. Still, she's a young woman in a world that is actively hostile to her. Gilbert would have been both a shield and a key, protector and enabler, a match born from friendship and mutual understanding; and if not entirely happy, at least they could have been content.

He’s younger than her. That doesn’t really mean a lot, but she remembers what feelings felt like even just a couple of years ago. Love creates a better world which, if you’re lucky, stays that way — and when you think it’s gone it rips a hole in your chest that you now need to fill with something else, except nothing is as substantial so it feels like trying to bite an apple only to find out it’s made out of mashed potatoes. And she knows it’s not Gilbert’s fault that the mashed potatoes close in around her heart whenever she needs to dampen her own emotions. Winifred does not begrudge him his happiness. But now she’s leaving for Paris on her own, staying at the empty home of one of her father’s friends, having to start over in Parisian society with barely any connections, and quite honestly dreading it.

As they near the station she hears the whistle of the trains, the bustle of the passengers. “All aboard!”, coming from the platform. Better hurry.

She moves quickly, and before she knows it her trunk has been checked aboard the train. She finds a compartment to make herself comfortable for the ten-hour journey to the ocean liner that will finally take her across the Atlantic. The world has never felt so big.

She has never felt so small.

Departing from Nova Scotia helps her feel better, somehow. Crossing through the gangplank onto the deck is the first time she starts to feel awake, that short walk over the waves making her aware of her own body, its balance on the balls of her feet rising through her hips. She’s been wearing the same clothes for almost a day now, and the chemise under her corset is starting to feel grimy against her skin.

The salty air and the swaying of the rising tide hit her as she makes her way to her cabin, a double in second class. First class would be simply too much of an expense for five days of sea-travel, and third class would not have seemed acceptable to her family, so she’s been set up to share with another woman, young or old she does not yet know. Or maybe, she muses, she’ll get lucky and have the cabin — and the lavatory! — to herself. Have a few days to gather herself and take Paris by storm the second she gets there.

Oh. Tough luck. A trunk peeking out from under the narrow cot to the left signals to someone else’s presence in the cabin. She steps aside so the porter can bring her own baggage into the room, tipping him and closing the door. As she does, the lavatory door clicks open, and a woman walks out.

“Oh!” She startles, her disheveled hair framing her face. “I’m sorry, I did not hear you come in. I’m Priscilla Andrews,” she says with a soft smile, sticking out her just-washed hand.

“Winifred Rose.” They shake, Winnie’s gloved hand in Miss Andrews’s bare one.

“I took the liberty of taking the bed to the left, if that’s okay with you, Miss Rose. But if you’d rather change—”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you.” Winnie feels the awkwardness, her own words ringing in her head as she tries to figure out how to maneuver around the small cabin without shoving her roommate around. “May I—?”

“Of course! How rude of me.” Miss Andrews makes her way to her cot, letting herself plop down on it. “Excuse the lack of decorum, I’m quite exhausted from the trip here.”

Her face softens into a soft smile that isn’t really a smile but the ease of a safe environment. It’s been a while since Winnie has seen a young woman let herself be held up by her corset, all loose limbs and droopy shoulders, and it gives her a strange comfort to be around someone her age again.

“Frankly, Miss Andrews, I myself was thinking of forgoing lunch to take a nap. I’m not quite sure about the virtue of skipping gluttony in favor of sloth—”. Her stomach actually rumbles then, startling both of them into laughter. “Alas, it seems my body has different plans. Would you like to join me for lunch?”

“That would be lovely.”

Miss Andrews’s hair now back in its bun, they make their way to the dining room and are shown to their table, a nice four-seater near a window port-side. The liner is big enough that the waves don’t sway it too much, but there is a constant, if slight, careening of the ship. Serving time is almost over, but no one has joined their table — during this season liners rarely operate at full capacity. Winnie is glad, she’s tired and actually very much enjoying her cabinmate’s company.

“May I inquire, what’s your destination?” She says, cutting up her roast chicken and vegetables. It’s delicious, and she finds herself somewhat surprised at how much she’s enjoying her first meal at sea.

“Paris!” A wistful smile accompanies the word. “A family friend has an empty home that needs running, and I want more than I can get back home, so…” The smile falters, hiding what seems to be pain. Or disappointment? Winifred is not sure.

“Same as I! Oh, I hope we will become the best of friends!” She exclaims, excited, her eyebrows rising and her mouth lifting at the corners. “Or, at least,” in a quieter, conspiratorial tone, “even if we turn out to hate one another, we can become each other’s archnemesis and use the rivalry as conversation fodder. I shudder to think of developing new social connections.”

She gets a laugh out of her companion, a warm, startled sound that makes her cover her mouth in mirth, revelling in their slightly inappropriate conversation. Still, no one seems to mind; other diners are too engrossed in their own food and discussions to notice, and the servers are simply too busy to care.

“Oh, Miss Andrews, I do hope we get along.”

“Surely, we will. But please, if we are to be friends, would you do me the favor of calling me Prissy?”

“Why, of course! Then I shall be Winnie.”

A beat, a smile, a huff of laughter. They raise their glasses and toast, “to friendship!”, their eyes shining with wine and excitement.

They take a walk after lunch, stretching their limbs. All around the deck, from the port side to the bow, through the starboard until they get to the stern, where there are benches overlooking the wake of the ship. They sit. The air is getting chilly, and a mild but persistent wind sends whirlwinds of tiny drops of ocean water their way. Winnie can feel her hair getting frizzy, her skin getting sticky with the sea spray. She licks her lips and tastes salt. She watches Prissy do the same, and her heart jumps in her chest. Oh, dear.

“I don’t mean to pry, but, what you said earlier? About wanting more than you can get back home? What did you mean?” Winnie asks, softly, trying to make her face say that it’s fine, really, if Prissy doesn’t want to say, but that she won’t be judged if she chooses to share.

“Well,” she starts, turning her gaze downwards, to her hands demurely clasped on her lap, “I was to marry, last year. I left him at the altar.” She lets out a breath, slowly, like the weight of it is crashing down on her all over again. “My family — they’ve been upset with me since, and I don’t really want to marry, but they will not allow me to pursue a professional career in order to provide for myself. My parents believe that running their friend’s Paris flat will just be training to be some other man’s wife, and they don’t seem to understand how much I do not want that, or if they do they don’t care. I don’t even think they know how smart I am, to be honest. I don’t think they want to know.”

Prissy, brow furrowed, looks out to the ocean, the wake of the ship disrupting the waves. It’s been hours since land disappeared, and they are surrounded by blue in all directions. She looks at Winnie with determination in her eyes.

“I don’t regret it.” It's a statement. “I never loved him.” Prissy looks at her, a bold stare and solid demeanor, as if daring her to pass judgement. She’s readying herself for a deriding comment, Winnie notices, to lose her new friend and become mere acquaintances, polite to each other for the next few days. But Prissy’s look is of such determination that Winnie just knows how proud she is of herself, and how could anyone hold it against her?

“I was set to marry, too.” Winnie surprises herself, saying it. “He called off the engagement, because he was in love with someone else. I didn’t love him either,” she rushes to say, as Prissy’s brows shoot up and her eyes soften in sympathy, “but I had already figured out my life’s plan around that marriage, and then two days ago the rug was pulled from under my feet. I never really wanted it, beyond the security and companionship, but—”

“Seeing yourself suddenly without it feels like standing at the edge of a cliff?” Prissy asks, smiling. “And at the same time—”

“I feel free”, Winnie finishes. She takes her first deep breath in days. Or, really, her first deep breath in years, since she left her boarding school and was launched, head first, into polite society. To find a husband. It’s the thought of a husband that makes her chest tight; the thought of how little choice she gets, the gamble on how much he would respect her, the lack of control. Gilbert was a good, safe choice. And even then, he was just safe. She was never counting on happiness. “I’m positively terrified, but I feel free.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon sitting, wandering around the ship, exploring every nook and cranny they can find without worrying too much about being proper. Supper comes and goes, and afterwards they end up at the same spot at the stern, standing arm in arm near the railing, looking out into the black water. The moon, almost full, illuminates the rippling waves below. The sky is a deep, dark blue, and only the brightest stars shine through the mist. It’s so open and cold, and yet Winnie feels safe, enveloped in the night.

Winnie doesn’t want to think too much about it, but she’s thinking about it. Waking up at the crack of dawn means laying in her cot for at least a couple more hours, if she doesn’t manage to fall back asleep. But how could she? She feels seen for the first time in years. Walking around with Prissy, arms linked, heads close while confiding in each other; dare she let herself hope they would be kindred spirits? The way Prissy had spoken the day before resonates with Winnie so deeply, how could they not be?

She thinks back to her boarding school days, all the girls prim and proper. Sneaking around with one another had seemed so natural then. So right. After all, was there anything as profound as friendship? Was there, somehow, any other love? Turned out there was — just not for her. The feelings she had felt were not returned, the intimacy stopped, and she was left feeling stuck, left on a boat without oars to row to shore, farther and farther from her friends sailing away. Yet, she knew feeling stranded had felt better than pursuing a man ever would. The very idea felt like a rock tied to her foot, pulling her down, drowning her in mud.

And then, against all hope, she can breathe. Of course she knows that her current situation is not ideal, after having to leave home so she’s not intensely pitied by the few people she actually hangs around in Charlottetown. But speaking to Prissy yesterday, and watching her back rise and fall as she sleeps now, in the dim light of their cabin, Winnie feels at peace. There is also a tight feeling in her stomach, and she’s not letting herself entertain the idea of actually, perhaps, falling in love with Miss Andrews, but maybe she is. If someone had asked her at any point in her life if she believed in love at first sight, she would have said no. She still would. But love at first conversation, maybe. Love at first insight, at first knowing, at first recognition. Winnie knows she might be wrong, but she thinks, she really thinks, that Prissy and her are the same. Kindred spirits. And even if the feelings are not mutual, there will be, at least, understanding. She doesn’t remember the last time she had that.

She’s really not going to fall back asleep. Winnie throws back the covers and gets to the lavatory, figures she’ll get ready for the day. She washes up, scrubs her face, takes out her rag curls and brushes them out. She goes back out to her trunk and pulls out her underthings, a nice white blouse with lace around the collar and shoulders, and a gored skirt. Simple yet fashionable. Winnie returns to the lavatory and discards her nightgown, substituting it with her chemise and drawers, putting her corset on. She fastens the busk and swings her arms to her back to tighten the lacing, and she notices it fastens farther than it did last week. The back panels of her corset are now maybe a little more than an inch apart, compared to her regular two. She knew she had been feeling poorly, but she really hadn’t spotted the difference. She’ll have to make sure to take proper care of herself.

She leaves the lavatory to find Prissy awake, and suddenly feels a little self conscious about her state of undress. Only her arms and half her legs are showing, but she still feels a certain vulnerability.

“Good morning!” Says Prissy, stretching her arms out over her head. “Are you done in there?” At Winnie’s nod, she brings her own undergarments with her and leaves Winnie in the cabin, dazed with her newfound realization that she’s really falling for Prissy. How? How can anyone develop feelings for someone so fast? But here they are and, well, what is she going to do.

Prissy comes out of the lavatory in her corset and undergarments, tied with powder-blue ribbon in contrast to Winnie’s light pink. Her hair is so much longer than it looked in its bun, and she sits in front of the small mirror on her wall to put it up again for the day. She sections her blonde strands and braids them, twisting them into a pretty, poofy updo. Winnie can’t stop looking at her, skin glowing in the morning light. Prissy catches her eye in the mirror and smiles, softly, like she can read her mind.

They finish getting ready, putting on their layers, and walk out onto the deck. It’s colder than yesterday, and the sky is a very cold, pale blue. The water looks almost grey, foam rising and falling, and the liner bobs up and down in the waves. They make their way to breakfast.

“So, Winnie,” starts Prissy, plucking a piece of fruit from her bowl, “did you sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you! Although I did wake up very early and I am tired, I might not be the best conversationalist this morning.” She smiles, apologetically but teasing. Prissy laughs in mirth at her expression.

“Oh, how the turning of the earth vexes our sleep!” Declaiming, loudly enough that other patrons, early risers, turn their disapproving gaze on them. Winnie’s face contorts in a silent laugh, and she shushes Prissy, her shoulders shaking.

“Shh! They’ll throw us out!” She has tears in her eyes.

Prissy has shown some truly unexpected humor in the morning, and Winnie’s guard was down. Not only is she falling for her; oh, no. Her guard is down enough that she forgets her sense of propriety in public! For a moment she thinks about it, and quickly resolves that she does not care. Next thing she knows she’s looking back at Prissy and they’re both dissolving in a fit of laughter, tears welling up in their eyes, postures upright only because of their corsets’ boning.

“Oh, I missed laughing with friends,” says Winnie, wistfully gazing into Prissy’s eyes. She watches Prissy’s eyebrows take a downturn, and worries. “Is everything alright?”

Prissy takes a deep breath, nods, puts her arms on the table and leans forward. A little like she’s confiding in Winnie, a little like she just wants to be held up and use that effort elsewhere.

“It’s just— I just miss this, you know? Laughing with friends. After my wedding debacle, my friends and I grew distant. Partially because of the whole leaving-my-betrothed-at-the-altar thing, but also just them leaving to study, or to finishing school, and I stayed.” She takes a deep breath, looks at the middle of their table. “The younger girls are perfectly nice, for the most part, but I didn't really want to spend my time with my sister’s friends. Or my brother’s enemies.” She huffs, amused. “There is also the part where I did not want to even entertain the idea of new marriage prospects, of course. I could not, for the life of me, make my parents understand how much marriage does not matter as much as an intimate friendship.” She’s now looking straight into Winnie’s eyes, and is she saying something? Could she really?

Winnie could take that in, right now, and let her know. They are both using this way of speaking, in a code so subtle that no one outside of the loop would understand, with an undercurrent of caution and hope. And dare she hope, dare she hope that Prissy is feeling the same way as her? Winnie is no coward, and there is only one way to find out.

“I feel exactly the same way,” Winnie answers, “I haven’t had one such friendship since I was at boarding school.” Her face softens, as she sees Prissy’s expression change. “I wish — I wish I could have one again.”

They’re both trying to convey so much over their breakfast table, a very private conversation taking place in public, and they’re being careful with their words. They know each other, and each other alone. They understand.

They spend the rest of the day lounging around the ship, going in and out of the leisure hall, exploring the upper and lower decks. The wind is blowing strongly, turning the surface of the water choppy, making it white with foam over the slate grey of the waves. The liner bobs strongly enough that they head downstairs, to the narrower hallways below deck. There are not a lot of passengers, and only minimal crew, so they do not feel too out of place.

The sea has become rougher, and the ship jerks sometimes, shoving them against each other. They both blush, and smile at each other, and let out slightly embarrassed laughs, and do it all over again every fifty steps or so, following the rhythm of the waves.

When they make it above deck again, the sky has become dark, shrouded in heavy, stormy clouds. Every light in the dining hall is on, and yet the darkness seems to seep in through the windows. They sit down to eat, but the movement makes them uneasy, and they end up eating just a little bit of soup. They’re not particularly hungry, and they want to make the crew’s work as easy as possible, what with their moving around in a jerky boat and all. By the end of serving time, the jolting has become significant enough that diners are advised to make their way to their cabins, and to keep their belongings in their baggage, to avoid anything falling and breaking, or hurting someone.

They get in their cabin and change into their nightgowns. They’re both trying to be nonchalant about it, but their expressions betray an undercurrent of uneasiness. Ocean liners are fairly safe, what with them being rather big ships, but the jolting and jerking without rhyme or reason has them on edge.

“Good night,” whispers Prissy, bundled into her cot, with her arm under her pillow grasping it as if it can anchor her.

“Good night.” Winnie closes her eyes, and although the careening of the boat is a tad more violent than would be ideal, she lets it rock her to sleep.

After what feels like two minutes, a stronger jerk jolts her awake. It must be night already, as the only glow coming in are tiny wisps of silvery moonlight. She looks to Prissy, who is still asleep. Her brow is furrowed, tightly, and she murmurs something that Winnie can’t understand. The ship jolts again, and Prissy’s features contort further. Winnie can’t just let her keep having a nightmare, can she? She slips out from under her covers, careful not to let the waves send her into any sharp corners, and sits on the edge of her cot, leaning over Prissy’s bed. She puts her hand to her shoulder and shakes her awake.

“Wha—?”

“It's just me. It looked like you were having a nightmare,” Winnie explains, drawing back a bit. Has she overstepped?

Prissy’s face relaxes, but her features still tense up with every new jerk of the vessel.

“Oh, thank you. Yes, I was having a nightmare. I don’t... I don’t really like boats. The sea is lovely, but being on it is positively nerve-wracking, especially when it’s tossing us around like wood chips”, she rambles, Winnie’s hand on her shoulder in silent support. “Would you—?” Suddenly she looks nervous, or at least a different kind of nervous. “Would you mind, would it be okay if you lied down with me?”

Winnie freezes for a second, but then her legs are moving of their own accord and she’s getting under the covers that Prissy is keeping up for her. It’s warm underneath them, and she feels the heat coming from Prissy. She’s suddenly aware that they’re now sharing a very narrow bed, in quite a state of undress. Nightgowns may be perfectly respectable sleeping attire, but this is positively irregular. Still. The bed is warm, and they are so close that even in the darkness Winnie can see every singular eyelash. If she can see Prissy so well, then she’s glad to have skipped the rag curls tonight in favor of a loose braid.

Prissy’s breath catches, and Winnie can feel herself almost holding her breath, as if any little sound between them could break the moment. It feels like the buildup to something stuck in time. And then, almost out of nowhere, Prissy kisses her. A tiny, brief peck on the lips, and she draws back immediately, eyes wide like a fawn. Winnie takes a moment, processing. She had hoped, of course, but it still caught her by surprise. She shuffles forward, until their noses touch, and smiles and kisses Prissy again, putting intention behind it. Her lips are so soft and warm, and when Winnie brushes her tongue against her lower lip Prissy reacts with her whole body. She kisses back, bringing her arms up and putting one hand on Winnie’s cheek, the other on her back pulling her close.

Winnie’s mind is going a hundred miles a minute, frantic and wild, trying to make her body keep up against the shock and relief. She puts her hand on Prissy’s middle, feeling the soft curve of her waist underneath, warm under the covers. Their legs are touching and twisting around the bedsheets, and their kiss is growing sloppy and shameless, and she would not have it any other way. They kiss for what feels like hours, intensity ebbing and flowing. It goes from hunger to the softest little kisses, sometimes just their faces together breathing the same air. They kiss, and they talk, and they laugh until the storm fades away and they fall asleep, tangled in each other.

They wake up at the same time. There is a faint gilded glow streaming through the window, bathing everything in champagne light. Their hair shines golden and their cheeks rosy, and when they look at each other the blush deepens. Winnie notices, in fact, that Prissy blushes down to her chest, and Prissy sees her looking, and they dissolve in giggles.

“Hey,” Prissy grins.

“Hey.” Winnie closes the gap between them and gives her a nice, long wake-up kiss.

“I could get used to this.” And they keep kissing, until the sun shines brighter and they get out of bed, and wash up, and help each other into their clothes, hands brushing skin and kisses interrupting the task.

They go to breakfast. Winnie wonders if the other patrons can see how happy, how free she is right now. They’re in the middle of an ocean, and everything feels so far away, and yet she’s more herself than she’s ever been. She and Prissy keep glancing at each other and smiling, turning their gazes away, as if one long look would betray their feelings. But they feel safe, and they’re happy, and they’ll figure things out as they come. For now, they speak of Paris, and of being together, and share looks of anticipation.

They take their dessert to go, each a piece of fruit from the bowl in the middle of the hall. They walk arm in arm to the prow of the ship, hands clasped together, with the light morning breeze blowing in their faces. Winnie bites her apple, solid through the core. The world has never felt so big.


End file.
